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Fenris hissed as he pulled another stitch through with his teeth. Why did the wound have to be on his arm? It would have been so much more convenient to be on his leg, where he could more efficiently use both hands to stitch his wounds.
This was all because he didn’t want to go see that damned mage down at the Darktown clinic. He’d had enough of his berating for the year. When he was in pain, the last thing he wanted was more arguments in his life. Then there was Hawke. He’d taken up the art of healing, given all the suffering that often came to them in battle. His cheeks blossomed into red just at the thought of Hawke, at the thought of his large but gentle hands on him, of the small smile he gave as he made sure it was okay.
He huffed in defeat as he dropped the needle again. Why did it bother him so much? He spent plenty of time on the run licking his own wounds, so why was this any different? The chill of the desolate mansion was getting to him more than usual, only heightening the sting of his cuts. He’d managed to get most of them at least.
When he heard the sound of knocking on his door, he raised his head. Someone was here? He wasn’t exactly in a state where he could show himself at the door. They would have to wait. He picked his needle back up and continued to stitch. He’d always done things alone. There was no need for anybody else. He didn’t need anyone.
“Fenris?” Hawke’s voice rang through the door and Fenris froze. “Are you in there? I’m coming in.”
Fenris’s heart pounded in his chest. He was going to think he was a wreck if he saw him like this, poorly stitching his own wounds. Pathetic. Hawke knew how to do these things properly, there was no way he wouldn’t notice that he was making a mess of it. Did he hide? He stumbled up from the stool he was sitting on as he heard the footsteps echo louder and louder through the mansion.
“Fenris.”
Slowly, Fenris turned around looking like a deer in headlights, needle in hand, blood dripping from his poorly sutured wound. Hawke was stood in the doorway, a mixture of confusion and concern plastered on his face. Somehow, he managed to look so incredibly charming even when he was pulling an expression like that. Fenris shook the thought away. Their time spent together that one night was long in the past now. He didn’t want to burden him further.
“Maker. Your arm is bleeding! How long have you been injured? May I have a look?” Hawke continued to talk, rushing towards him and reaching out to touch him but pausing. He would never touch Fenris without his permission. Their eyes met as he looked for some kind of confirmation or rejection.
“It’s not that bad,” Fenris mumbled.
His movements betrayed him as he reluctantly held out his arm towards Hawke. The way Hawke’s amber eyes bore into his arm made his stomach swim. It was methodical, yes, but with a tinge of empathy.
“Nonsense. Come on, sit down. I was going to ask you if you were up to coming down to the Wounded Coast but this needs attending to first,” Hawke said, gesturing towards the stool Fenris had been sat on earlier.
Fenris pressed his lips tightly together and moved over to sit back down on the stool. If it was Hawke, maybe it would be okay. He’d healed him before, but didn’t this uselessly waste his magic? If they were going to the Wounded Coast, they likely expected a fight. What if something terrible happened? What if he ran out of lyrium because of him? Even as these thoughts raced through his mind, he remained passive, looking up at Hawke silently.
“Is it okay if I heal these?” Hawke asked. He wiggled his fingers in the air. “With magic?”
“Yes, but do not expend too much energy on this,” Fenris told him firmly.
Hawke shot him a familiar, cheesy grin, one that could melt away just about anyone’s worries. He knelt beside him and hovered his hands over his wounds. A light blue glow emanated from his fingers as the pain began to dull and the wounds began to close. Fenris watched carefully as it happened and was surprised at how even the ache in his muscles seemed to fade with the touch. Hawke’s magic was so… soft, like feathers brushing over his skin. Danarius’s had always been like poison, pinpricks digging him out of his body. Hawke was not Danarius. He was nothing like Danarius.
“There! All better,” Hawke said triumphantly and pulled his hands away.
Fenris looked down at himself and found it free of injury. There was no need for Hawke to expend that much energy, to even take the tiredness away from him. He just had to be an overachiever. He should’ve expected no less from Garrett Hawke.
“Thank you,” Fenris said. He rolled his shoulders and shifted, getting used to the new comfort he had found. A part of him wondered whether his magic could be used to dull the throbbing of the lyrium thrumming through his body. It was a question for another day, or at least he hoped. Perhaps one day he would pluck up the courage to talk about what had happened between them. “The Wounded Coast you said?”
“Oh! Yes. Grab your sword, we’ve got a trip to make!” Hawke nodded and raised to his feet.
Fenris couldn’t help but smile softly to himself as Hawke sauntered in the direction of his stairs. There was a reason he always enjoyed walking behind the man, even if the impure thoughts sometimes haunted his sleep. He walked over to pick up his sword and put his gauntlets back on. It was time for a trip indeed. After all, wherever Hawke went, he would follow.
Maybe then he didn’t have to be all alone after all.